when in a wormhole
by minkspit
Summary: Two young Robins have an unexpected encounter and a talk that will haunt them both, if they remember it. Liberal use of space magic bullshit. Robin Jason Todd and pre-Robin Tim Drake.


There is a hole in the corner of a universe. So Jason does what one does when there's a hole in the world and they can't stop it. He throws shit at it.

He crunches another empty soda can and tosses it into the black hole. The crunched can vanishes into the purple and black swirl with all the broken stars, and its nothing revolves slowly. The void pulls at his shredded shoelaces and threatens to untie them. Space's cold touch blows through the bottom of his worn and taped up shoes.

Jason knows sitting at the edge of a black hole with his legs dangling over the edge is a bad idea, but he sits there anyway. He's jumped off far taller buildings as a Robin. He doesn't have the costume any longer, but he doesn't have anything to lose either. Space is airless and he stopped breathing a long time ago. An explosion as bright as the stars themselves ended that.

There's nothing to do. The quiet pool of the afterlife revolves around itself in a snowglobe that never lights up and the black hole spins slowly. So Jason stays sitting at the brink of an abyss, coldness leaking through his battered clothes, and looks down into the starry swirl.

He's not sure how long he's there, occasionally throwing rocks or trash into the rift, before he hears the footsteps crunching behind him. Jason braces his palms against the edge of the rift. The footsteps approach before they hesitant behind him, and then gingerly move beside him.

"I'm sorry. You're Jason, right?"

Jason's first impression is that pale kid looking at him is sorry for interrupting his meaningless screwing around and is also sorry that his voice carries any volume. His posture is hesitant, like he crunched an eggshell under his foot in the library, and he looks ready to step back lighter than air if Jason says 'no.' His combed black hair and soft blue eyes look darker in the bare light.

"Yeah. I am." Jason flicks a rock into the abyss. It falls before the suction catches it and it turns in big, loopy spirals with the rest of the debris, and disappears into the bottom thousands of miles away.

The boy looks relieved when Jason gives confirmation. "I'm Tim." He's far more relaxed when he sits next to Jason. "Tim Drake. I'm a fan."

Tim's hands are smooth and clean, but he doesn't hesitate to put them on the filthy ground. It dispels Jason's fleeting impression that he wouldn't be caught dead with a dirty bandaid on them.

"Welcome to the end of the earth, Tim." Jason kicks at a floating piece of trash. The void pulls at his leg before the petrified apple core rolls away.

"I'm glad I found you," Tim says. "After you died, I wasn't sure where you were, even if I'd been tracking you and Batman. I didn't know what had happened until the newspaper came out in the first week of March."

"I didn't know my body had cooled yet, then," Jason says.

"Batman collected your body, so there wasn't any public burial or public knowledge of Robin's death then. I asked the press to give me a copy of the official paper before they printed it. My mother donated a sum to them a few years ago, so they agreed." Tim's silver watch shines on his wrist as he turns his arm. An adam's apple tries to bob in his throat, but it's too small to push up any skin or push down any pitch.

Jason has an idea of who this boy is now. He's the sort of rich kid who has plenty of money but no parents bouncing around the empty mansion and who develops a sort of neurotic personality to deal with the space. When they're around those parents, they're the neatly tuxedoed little penguins standing in front of them while cameras flash and who get shunted offscreen fast. Tim is a bit old for that role—he looks around twelve or thirteen—but he still fits it.

"I'm surprised your parents let you come out to this dead end," Jason says.

"My parents aren't home. They're on a business trip."

Tim draws his legs closer to the ledge, cautious, when a galactic wind tugs at his pants legs. Jason stays slouched where he is. He snatches another empty can from the ledge. Tim watches with silent fascination as Jason crushes the can and tosses it into the black hole. Jason's red hair is ruffled. The void's brushing didn't do it any favors. Aside from the starlight, the cliff above the void is nothing but patchy shadows, but Jason doesn't mind. He's been in plenty of those before.

"I've never seen a black hole before."

"I guess that's what it is," Jason says. "It's been out here since the beginning and all it does is suck in garbage from the rest of the universe. All the debris is drawn to it. I've never seen it fill up the whole time I've been here, no matter how much trash goes into it, including a few comets."

"Why is it here?" Tim's eyes are focused and sharp. Thoughts or attempts at equations already flow behind them. He perches on the edge like a cat despite himself.

"Fuck if I know," Jason says.

Tim pauses before he grabs a warped rock. It glitters with ice. He throws it into the void and watches it spin down. His small whistle is drained away by the nothingness.

"Nice," Jason says. He doesn't bother telling Tim he might want to scoot back. Taking care of others was his responsibility when he was alive, but it's the kid's fault he showed up in this dump; he should take care of himself. Jason's cloak and mask are in shreds. Looking after Tim or anyone's well-being isn't his job. It might be Batman's, but judging his actions lately, that might not be true either.

On the other hand, Tim is leaning forward too much. Starshine reflects in his eyes.

Jason grabs him by the back of his tailored shirt and pulls him back. "If you fall in, you're not coming back."

"Thanks," Tim says. He readjusts himself. "It's captivating, that's all. You can see all the nebulae clumped near the bottom. If you looked close enough, you could probably see a star imploding, though the heat and light would blind you."

"Into stars?" Jason says.

"My family has a planetarium on the fourth floor," Tim says. "The governess and any of the staff were allowed to let me in whenever I wanted. My mother bought me an astrology encyclopedia for my tenth birthday."

"So that's a yes."

"I asked to go stargazing with them," Tim admits. "Or for some of the luminescent stars to stick on my ceiling. I got that instead before they went on another trip."

"Life's a bitch sometimes," Jason says. "You have to keep going before it gets worse, and then go through that too. It's the only way to get to something better, if you do."

"I know," Tim says. The silence in space suspends everything like it's locked in liquid glass.

"...I'm going to be a new Robin," Tim says finally. "Batman needs one. I don't want to step on what you've left behind, and everyone still misses you, but it needs to happen. I'm sorry. I hope you understand."

Jason assesses the boy sitting next to him without turning his head. He's small, though no smaller than Jason when he became a Robin, and there's no hardened shell to him yet, even if there's a fraction of steel and wit. He doesn't have Dick's shoulders that always loom over everything, or Jason's bite—he's got teeth, but he's still a lamb—and he looks too fragile to be bouncing around the streets. Jason could wrap one bruise-knuckled hand around his wrist and probably break it. Even back then, at Tim's age, he had far more callouses.

Jason doesn't sneer, but he's got a snicker of satisfaction in his chest that he should be ashamed of when he reaches out to Tim.

"No hard feelings," he says. "I get it. Batman needs someone to keep him in line, or tethered away from what he is now. Good luck. Watch your back, and don't walk into anything blindly if you can. That shit'll get you killed. You're not invincible, and you need to watch yourself, and Bruce. He's not invincible either, no matter what people tell you. Remember that. Alright?" Tim nods.

 _You won't need to, since he won't take you in._ In the back of his head, Jason can hear Bruce's frown and the rejection before he turns Tim away. " _You're too young. No. I won't have another Robin this age. Not again."_ Tim isn't a bad guy, and Jason is sure he's going somewhere, but he also knows he won't be replaced. Not—swapped out, for someone more docile and better educated. That wouldn't happen. He wouldn't be replaced. Shouldn't. Not this way. Not now.

"Thank you," Tim says. He hesitates before reaching out, and Jason shakes his hand. "I won't let you down. I promise."

"Do this for you, not me," Jason says. "If someone ends up in the hospital, or someone's parents get a visit from the morgue, it won't be me."

Tim gives him a sad smile as he stands. "No, it won't be. But it doesn't matter."

Jason watches him leave. Right before Tim reaches the tangible blackness that he can touch and Jason can't, Tim turns and waves goodbye. Jason waves back.

He goes back to throwing trash in the void and feeling the sense of relief in his chest that eats itself.

 _He won't replace you. You know he won't._

Jason crushes another can and throws it in. The jagged aluminum doesn't even cut his skin.

* * *

Tim woke up sprawled in his silk-sheeted bed. He rubbed his head, feeling groggy. Sunlight leaked through his blinds. He inhaled, feeling an odd optimism in his chest as the weird dream faded.

Okay. If that wasn't a sign, nothing was. Time to finally do this.

"You need another Robin."


End file.
